Promote
by Kanthia
Summary: Here comes the promotion. Sing, skies, sing. [guycentric]


**Promote  
**Word Count: 3,434  
Rating: T  
Disclaimer: If Kanthia owned Fire Emblem, it'd be a whole lot easier (and Dorcas and Natalie would be able to support)  
Pairing: None...but if you look really, really hard there's a pairing implied. Let's call it FxG and it can be a secret.  
Inspiration comes from "Holding Out for a Hero".

_Incoming! Incoming! But only at the speed of light._

**

* * *

**

Promote

(proh-MOWHT')

a. To raise to a more important or responsible job or rank.

b. To advance (a student) to the next higher grade.

* * *

He was going to be the first. 

The _first_. That was the rumour going around the camp, anyways; he knew that it was coming soon and had spent too long pretending that it wasn't. It was finally going to happen.

He felt it now. Usually, in battle he felt a little stronger, a little quicker, a little wiser after each encounter. Every time his sword screamed bloody sunrise the sweat would tear off his temple and he'd feel something, but lately either the enemy soldiers were too weak or he was too strong which he doubted.

Heck, he'd been able to slip with ease under and into the killing radius of a Lance-wielding Wyvern Rider during yesterday's skirmish. And that wasn't even with the Edge. He'd been using a simple Steel Sword- and it was on a wide plain, not a forested area. Half the army had seen him, including lady Lyn of the tribe Lorca and the tactician, Kori.

He tried to sleep the threads of exhaustion away after that, alone in his tent while Rath was off seeing a wound treated to. He didn't feel much stronger than before, just a little different. A little more uncomfortable than usual; like his body had lost what little softness it once possessed. And the tiredness that generally accompanied battle was nowhere to be found.

The camp was silent, whispering grass the tents pitched on still slightly crimson. It was just past noon and a post-engagement nap had been in order for all of them. There was no noise save for the chirping of cicadas in the almost blindingly hot sun. The tiny grassy area they were camped on was surrounded by picturesque woods and blessed shade. He wandered west before collapsing in the shadow of a beautiful willow and finally finding the shores of sleep.

He was sitting up leaning on the massive trunk as he slept, with an unconscious focus he had never known.

He woke hours later. There was such a strange calm in his head. It made him feel a little dizzy, but he was suddenly aware that he was hungry. Quite hungry, as a matter of fact. He could smell Lowen making dinner back at camp. He stumbled out of the forest, grumbling to himself while picking leaves out of his loose hair. Despite the early evening (the sun was still up, and twilight was still about- oh, an hour away), there was a small fire heating the bottom of a large pot which bubbled in the strangest way. The pungent aroma of rabbit stew with wild onion and leek made his mouth water.

He took a seat on one of the large rocks that circled the firepit after grabbing a clay bowl and spoon from the stack. Whispers were being traded around him and no-one was asking why he had been in the forest for so long. It should have bothered him, but he felt too disconnected; as though he cared, but his mind was dozing.

He could hear grasshoppers chirping as the light started to fade. Lowen ladled him a large serving, larger than he generally ate. He was starving.

As he attacked the bowl, it brought him out of his stupor and back to the surface with the first chill wind of night. He hadn't been this hungry since the day be became indebted to that thief. It worried him, but nobody seemed to be speaking. Nobody seemed to be speaking to him- they were looking at him and whispering to one another.

He looked into Lyn's eyes as she sat beside the young Peg Knight Florina. He used to feel something like a bond with that frail little lavender girl; both of them stuttered when shy. He could no longer see the connection. She barely spoke to him now, and he supposed she was scared of him.

Florina looked away as soon as eye contact was made, burying her face in her companion's shoulder. It worried him to be frightening like this. There were other people that were more frightening than him (Sain, for instance).

He'd caught the edge of it when Marcus, sitting beside him and next to Lord Eliwood, leaned over and whispered into the young crimson ear.

Two words that froze his heart in his chest.

_First_

And

_Promote_.

* * *

"I-Isadora?" 

She looked up from cleaning what could only be blood and internal fluid off her lance. He could tell that the lack of a title before her name only irked her in a minor key. "Yes?"

"Um- what's it like to be promoted?"

She smiled. "So you've heard?"

"A little. People- people are saying things."

"Well," She held her lance up, putting the blunt end into the ground and leaning on it. He caught the edges of what could only be Sain's advance towards her tent; she mumbled an oath under her breath. "It's- incredible. You'll find out soon enough. And I must hide now- will you take Phillip back to the stable?"

Even more confused than before, he nodded and lead the horse off as Sain flew past him on 'the wings of his undying love'.

* * *

And so now what? 

He was beginning to think it was all a joke. Today was just a fluke, the way he fought. Everyone had been playing some sick joke on him to get his hopes up. It saddened him that they would do such a thing but that was the way life went. Tomorrow he would just have to find another way to become stronger.

He'd been lying in bed for hours, unable to sleep. Even the perpetual insomniac Rath was snoring gently in the bedroll across from him. He felt so uneasy with the thought of jokes and promotion and mastery and the ends of dreams.

And what dreams? He dreamt of being a master of swordplay. But who decides when they've mastered the gentle art of the sword? Was it now? The memory of the earlier skirmish unnerved him. Everything was so slow, so tender. Once upon a time a fight was desperately trying to remember taught moves and apply them in simple succession. That had slowly evolved into a different form of instinctual fighting. Today- today it had no longer been a fight, but a brute dance.

Ah, dance and fight.

The most beautiful of swordplay. His body had responded to him in a strange new way. He understood now; he wanted to fight again. He wanted to draw blood, to dance, to fight, to reach deeper and deeper into this new form until his sword was an extension of himself and his body was under perfect and graceful command.

He pulled the Killing Edge out of its sheath and brought it close to his body. Just being near it gave him comfort. His head fell deeper into the pillow, his ears closing and his eyelids kneeling to the sea of rest where dreams began.

* * *

"Are we ready?" She sheathed her sword, adjusting the blue tunic of Fate's plainswoman. 

"Almost. Hector's gone to get it from Merlinus' tent." Crimson hair on midnight's tear.

"Oh- we should start. Matthew, go wake him."

"Me? If either myself or Legault leaves, you won't be able to see as much anymore. And there must be bandits who can see this mass of light in the middle of the night, hmm?"

"Rath?"

"I'll go get him." The interrupter was the monk, of all people. "He'll be able to see me the best in the dark when he wakes."

"Lucius. He'll hurt you."

"Lord Ray- Raven, I will be fine."

The circle of torches opened up and a gold on white blur excused itself.

* * *

He was dreaming of black hair, of red and gold eyes, of swords that screamed off the edges of fingertips and sang songs of blood. And just as the sword commands blood, so does the young child; oh, chests that have swords, scars that remember wounds and promises. The sea, perhaps, the sea. Here comes the ship with green flame. The day you make your dream is the day you gave up life for the dead. 

The skies screamed the end of innocence as he pulled up the Killing Edge and thrust it to the throat of his tent's intruder. A frightened squeak caught it inches before the vulnerable neck it was calling for.

"-Oh, um, uh- sorry-"

"It's all right. We suspected as much. Now please wake up- we're waiting for you."

"At this hour?"

"Lord Eliwood said it should be done at night. Now hurry- we don't want to keep them waiting. And take your sword with you. Are you feeling well?"

He sheathed the angered weapon and scrambled to fix the loose strands of hair that had escaped from his braid while drawing his shirt over his head. "Yeah, thanks. I don't know what came over me." He was still a little dizzy, confused, half-dreaming. His head hurt again. Perhaps Priscilla would have a cureall for his unsteadiness.

"Come." Lucius pushed open the flap of the tent and they exited, the two of them. In the distance towards the small river, he could make out points of light. Torches. The entire camp was gathered in one spot.

"What- what's going on?"

"No time to explain, I'm afraid. We should begin soon."

* * *

There was a ring of torches burning around him, and he could barely make out faces in them. They were all there, staring at him. In the center he felt understandably small. Like less than everything, but more than nothing since the eyes on him were kind and accepting. The smallness faded to a simpler kind of love. 

Three torches wavered in the circle, which parted its lips to allow entrance. Out of the circle three people stepped.

First, the tactician in her worn green cloak. She carried nothing.

Second, the Shaman Canas carrying an even more worn book. It was a large thing, but looked to be more of a thing read at ceremonies than a tome used to kill. The cover was red, though he could not make out the title in the darkness and shifting light of fires.

Finally, the collective group held its breath as Hector stepped into the ring. Of the three Lords who commanded the legion, it had been decided that if he needed to swear allegiance to any house it was House Ostia; only because he still owed favours to that damned thief who worked for said House.

In the axe-wielding Lord's hands- a small crest, large enough to perhaps cover his heart.

Canas nodded to Kori, who took the book from his hands. "This is written in the normal language, not the language of ancients," she whispered.

"It will work." A laugh from the Shaman cleared their doubts. "It's mostly a ceremonial thing, anyways. There's stories of them being activated in the middle of battle."

Hector stepped forward. Compelled by the motion of torches, the eyes, the ears and the beating hearts, the young swordsman stuck the Killing Edge into the ground and knelt before him.

Kori cleared her throat. Silence fell.

"Worthy Mercenary, Fighter or Myrmidon."

A soft hum started, the circle became alive as a heart gives blood.

"We gather tonight, under the moon of Elmine, to note the elevated skill of our comrade-at-arms. Were he to fight in battle, he would fight for us all. Were he called to protect us, he would protect us all. And his deeds have not gone unnoticed."

His heart was beating too fast.

"Watch him in battle- he does not tire for his means. Watch him as a friend- he does not tire for his goals. And who can say that this man, tonight, should not continue?"

She passed the book to a fourth torch, the lady Lyn.

"The plains can offer no sympathy for the weak," she said. "And he needs none."

It changed hands again.

"To say I saved his life that day would be foolish. A man who gives away food expects the life saved to be lived out fully- and he has done no less than that."

His vision became blurry behind tears as the last man came forward.

"…Father always said this day would come. And now the Kutaloh is proud."

There was a stamping of feet, a cheer raised as the torches wavered and the hum grew into a cacophony of noise. And from the noise grew a chant, his name chanted over and over and over as his head swam and he lost control of his feet-

A blue, gloved hand was raised and the noise abruptly stopped. "You may rise."

He stood, looking up into the eyes of the young Lord. Behind him, the tactician was once more handed the book and nodded slowly. From the crowd, Priscilla stepped forth and handed an ornate Unlock staff to Hector.

"And so none can say that this man is undeserving, and none can say that this man is worthy of nothing except the highest praise."

Hector opened his hands and placed the Crest in the hands of the myrmidon. A shiver coursed his body as he touched it- oh, it was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. Fashioned from red stone, it almost hovered in his hands with the power it contained. The red, interrupted by gold and silver. The silver and gold shining in the torchlight. The promise bringing fire to his blood- he was so close-

"Then hold it out." The voice now belonged to the blue Lord, and he complied by holding out the Crest at arms' length. Hector held the staff above his head. "Guy, Hero Myrmidon of the Kutaloh…"

He brought it down, cracking the clear seal of the Crest.

"…You have been promoted."

* * *

There was dead silence for two moments too many, and he began to worry that something had gone wrong. The Crest was a fake. The staff did not strike true. He wasn't ready, he wasn't ready, he was too weak. 

And then the seal cracked deeper.

Slowly, the crack edged across the seal like worms eating into a corpse; the outer seal cracked as glass shatters into fine pieces and crumbled to dust revealing only the raw energy of the Seal underneath. He bit his bottom lip. The Seal called for his blood. He obliged as the lashing currents of air tore at his skin, cutting lines into his flesh and bringing scarlet life to the surface.

The blood of Kutaloh merged with the blood of the Seal, and the fracture was complete. The skies called down lightning to his feet and the screaming of wind drew him inches off the ground. He was barely aware that he was laughing and screaming with the return of memories.

Oh, the power!

The blood was fusing with him, with his body. He could taste it. Suddenly his arms were flexing, his legs were crouching into his chest, his body was glowing like he was on fire. He was the phoenix reborn. He was the fetus coming out of the womb. Here comes the glowing splint to light your air on fire.

With an expulsion of oxygen from his lungs, the calm melted and became a part of him. His spirit and body were bare. Quite suddenly, his arms relaxed and the Killing Edge was in his hands again. He gripped it harder, subject and student of the freezing light.

It really was just a part of him. An extension of not only his sword arm but also his self.

From the Crest came energy which buried deep into the places of his body he'd long forgotten. His arms, his chest, his legs- the muscles cried out and lengthened. Hardened. Muscle built on what had been thinness before. He was becoming taller and stronger than his body dreamt possible; Elmine told, where did this strength _come_ from? Where had this power been, buried within him?

And suddenly he was standing tall and straight, and the light faded with a cheer that extended into the skies and back.

* * *

"Bandits," Marcus said. 

A nighttime party, flaming torches, cheering throats. A glowing boy. No wondering.

"How many?" Eliwood's voice was lost in the night, but he seemed unworried. Perhaps it was because at this time of night the attackers were either very stupid or very smart; and if they were the smart kind, in all likelihood Marcus' report would be "Fang", not "Bandits".

"A small group, Lord Eliwood. Three or four untrained louts headed by a rather tough-looking Berserker. They seem to be very drunk, and are yelling something about-" a delicate cough, "-testing themselves. Shall I dispose of them while the rest of you turn in for the night?"

"No," said Guy, whose heart was speaking instead of his mouth. "Watch me instead."

* * *

The obligation was an invitation to open up. Wielding a sword on the battlefield was like wielding one's heart. And what strikes truer than a heart? Oh, the plains that last forever, here comes the wind and the shifting of the grass in harmonic purity; to a lost and lonely archer, to a forgotten woman, and to a starving swordsmaster everything is sitting beyond the horizon. 

The five axes were yelling something- if he understood them correctly- about 'rapin' and pillagin'. He emptied his head of thought, losing the tangled army watching intently and just barely hidden in the forest surrounding the six. The stars paled. The darkness faded to light.

Just as the sword rends, so must the soul.

The first axe, presumably the leader, stepped forward and let out a battle cry. Oh- this was a strong one; he could hear it in his heartbeat. A Berserker, those whose axes scream out in criminal and critical bloodlust. His rather large weapon suddenly found itself on a deadly path towards Guy's chest.

Guy stepped to the side. There were no sounds. The mere thought of fighting someone so strong gave him fire for blood and the fight became everything. He was a master of swordplay, now. No longer a shivering little teenager signing away freedom for a piece of life.

His sword moved like a piece of his body; suddenly it was perfect. His body was gentle, careful and precise. Deadly. He moved in slow motion, guiding every muscle like an orchestra. He was in perfect command of every inch of his being. When he willed to flex, muscles jumped and sweated and sang. When he willed to relax he became pliable as soft gold. And so it was. The axe swung around him with a measured meter like a song in four by four with notes only on the upbeats.

Ah, but to make a song complete…

One must consider the downbeats. Like the plains of Sacae- music to his ears. And to the music he did perfect the deadliest dance. Heartbeat to heartbeat.

_Badum_.

Everything screamed crimson euphoria. He lept, he dived, he tore life from soul.

No mercy for the weak.

* * *

"Is…he sleeping?" 

"Yes. I think- he's not tired, just tired out from today's events."

"…M- Matthew?"

"Ah, yes, Florina?"

"Um- you saw Guy- today- when he, um, you know…and you, um, met him a long time ago, right?"

"…Yeah. I'm surprised. He used to be such a spineless kid- today he looked like a demon. And to think that's the same starving boy I gave meat to…"

"I- I don't think he looked like a demon."

"Oh?"

"Y-yeah. It makes me want, um, want to train harder until I can get promoted too. It looked a little…musical."

* * *

He woke up the next morning feeling refreshed, like the way he felt after giving the Edge a good cleaning after battle. Or the way he felt after bathing in a stream post-battle, stripping off the dirty clothes and listening to nature. 

He got up slowly, his body aching; it was one step behind his ability. He needed to train more. He _wanted_ to train more. Perhaps he thought before that becoming a Sword Master meant the end of his dreams, but it was only the beginning. Yesterday's encounter had been unbelievably beautiful, yet there was more he could still prove.

There was an extra spring in his step as he left to start his morning training.

* * *

_/kanthia writes:_

_Thanks for reading "Promote"_

_…Otherwise known as "Super Mahou Shoujo Transformation Guy"._

_This was my first piece of Fire Emblem fandom. I'd like to apologize for many things; first of all, the lack of Karel. Having only reached Chapter 22, I've read up on the Support Conversations to get a better feel for the characters yet still felt uncomfortable manipulating a character I'd never once seen yet. I understand his relationship with the promotee in question and acknowledge the huge hole in the story just waiting for him to fill, so please excuse me for that.  
_

_And, as super extra huggles for reading this, I present a Haiku:  
**Kanthia's Lament  
**_

_Mission Twenty-Two.  
I must be the only one  
To let Pent get killed._

_/kanthia__  
_


End file.
